


Hello, It's Me

by verhalen



Series: Under The Rose [6]
Category: Flameborn (Multiverse), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Banter, Crack Treated Seriously, Dominant Maglor, Dooku Is Done With This Shit, Elves Reborn As Mortal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gay Sex, Hells the Unicorn, Honeymoon, Humor, I'm Sorry Tolkien, I'm sorry kiss, Idiots in Love, Inappropriate Use of the Silmarils, M/M, Magical Realism, Maglor Gets A Bit More Than A Hug If You Get What I Mean, Maglor Gets a Hug, Maglor Is So Done, Modern Era, Multi, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Past Lives, Playing in the Snow, Polyamory, Porn With Plot, Reincarnation, Silmarils, Soren being Soren, The Adventures Of Hells And The KISS Dolls, Urban Fantasy, Vacation, Weddings, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27867825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen
Summary: The sequel toThe Hounds of Love.Maglor has been wandering the Earth for thousands of years. His father was reborn as mortal and against all odds, they have found their way back to each other; Sören has reclaimed a Silmaril and is looking for the others. It happens that Fëanor's brothers are around too.  But will they also remember who they are, and will they revisit the forbidden passion - and power - they once knew? Or will they keep being oblivious nerds?Will they drive the author to drink?Stay tuned.
Relationships: Maglor/Fëanor/Fingolfin/Finarfin, Maglor/Nicolae Dooku (OMC)/Sören Sigurðsson (OMC)/Anthony Hewlett-Johnson (OMC)
Series: Under The Rose [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1332257
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	1. Eyes of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SemperViridis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemperViridis/gifts).



> Chapters 1 and 2 of this fic were originally part of a fic I was working on called _Method of Modern Love_ that I deleted because the story was going nowhere and I had to rework my plans for the New Dawn verse rather significantly for reasons. I _finally_ figured out what to do though, so yay?
> 
> ~ ~ ~
> 
> Sören Sigurðsson and Anthony Hewlett-Johnson are my OCs. For more information, please refer to my [Transformative Works Statement](https://verhalen.dreamwidth.org/263827.html).
> 
> Nicholas Decaux is an OMC inspired by Dooku from Star Wars. I began shipping Dooku with an OC named Sev in 2016 in a (now-archive-locked) fic called [_Stuck in the Middle With You_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8786491), and in 2018 wrote a modern Earth AU called [_Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14787306) where Sev became a human named Sören, and Dooku evolved beyond his canonical self. He looks and sounds very similar and there are similar personality traits if you squint (such as his elegance and being formal and polite to a fault), but he is also decidedly non-villainous in my multiverse and I feel it is more fair at this point to call him an OC.
> 
> Maglor and Gandalf of course belong to the Tolkien estate; I don't own it and I'm not making any money from it.
> 
> ~ ~ ~
> 
> This story has been gifted with love to SemperViridis because of her enthusiasm for the New Dawn verse in particular (Maglor's unironic love of hair metal ftw). I hope this story is everything you hoped it would be.

**March 2018**  
 _Corvallis, Oregon_  
  
  
It was Friday, March thirtieth, and Mark Lowry arrived at the Oregon State University campus as he did any other morning, listening to music in his Jaguar. This morning it was hair metal, his guilty pleasure - and that meant he was in a fairly good mood.  
  
He'd been in a good mood a lot lately. It was unsettling. Too many times in years past he'd found little pockets of happiness just for the other shoe to drop, and he'd learned not merely to distrust being happy, but to never venture far outside a melancholy fog, not allowing himself to get his hopes yet.  
  
And yet, here he was again, and he was happier than he'd been in a very long time.  
  
He'd spent the night with his boyfriend, Sören Sigurðsson, at Sören's place. It had been a typical late night for them, losing themselves in passion. Mark was an early riser most mornings and Sören was not a morning person, so after waking Sören up to give him a kiss and tucking him back in before the alarm went off, he'd seen himself out and gone back home to get ready for school, his morning routine including going on a run accompanied by his Corgi-sheepdog mix, Huan. Huan was his service dog, or more accurately, in training to be a service dog - before driving to school Mark had dropped Huan off at service dog school in Lebanon, to pick up when the school day was over.  
  
Huan was a wonderful companion, and Sören... even just thinking about him brought a flush to Mark's cheeks, a flutter in his stomach, feeling a warm glow. Sören was a fellow professor - Sören taught studio art, and Mark taught music theory - and since they'd gotten involved last summer he'd made it a point to visit Sören on campus, the two of them sharing breaks together most days. Seeing Sören was the highlight of his day, each day, and the little moments were rays of sunshine. Except they weren't so much rays of sunshine as they were like entire suns. That was what Sören was to him; that was how deeply Mark felt for him.  
  
Mark felt more deeply than most people, because his name wasn't really Mark Lowry, and he wasn't what just about everyone assumed he was. Mark Lowry was the latest and most-used alias in a long series of them. Once upon a time he had been Macalaurë Fëanorion, the second son of the High King of the Noldor, and then he had been exiled. He'd lived longer among humans than he had among his own kind, and he had learned to pass for human, though he was only willing to hide his identity so far - he preferred to keep his black hair long, and he preferred not to glamour his ears not simply because the glamour magic required to make his pointy ears look rounded and more human was more effort than he wanted to expend, but also because the pointy ears were a reminder of who and what he was. So his hair covered his ears, never worn in a ponytail or a "man bun" unless he was at home, and usually not even then. Even his hair was not its true length, in public only going to the middle of his back, but when he could shed his glamour it fell to his thighs.  
  
Elves were a beautiful people, and the Noldor were great lovers of beauty. His father, Fëanor, had been enamored of the beauty of the world, and the beauty in each person he met and had strove to give back, paying beauty unto beauty, making marvel after marvel, a beautiful world made all the more beautiful for Fëanor's architecture, his jewels, his smithing, his inventions. Fëanor's eye for beauty had been most with his brothers and his second son, and when Maglor had come of age they had worshiped each other in the most intimate of ways. They had been punished for this, and more - Melkor had envied their beauty, their craft, their enchantment of the world, and they had refused to bow and scrape to him. Melkor's jealousy was a monster, one that behaved in monstrous ways. Fëanor had - rightly - blamed the Valar for not keeping Melkor on a short leash. And for his blame, and daring to walk away from them, the Valar had cursed all Noldor with the Doom, but not even Maglor with his connection to the Song could have predicted that the Valar would try to break Fëanor once and for all, after Fëanor had been reincarnated as Mortal, and as the continuation of the Doom, the Valar had sent many of the modern world's ills his way. Abuse at the hands of his guardians. Bullying in school. An abusive ex-boyfriend. Rape. Post-traumatic stress disorder, bipolar disorder. _Tears unnumbered ye shall shed._ And so it was. Sören had been through more than most, and more than anyone should have to endure.  
  
Yet, he had such a capacity to love. A capacity for kindness and warmth, after the cold cruelty he'd known. Bubbly, effervescent laughter - his personality sparkled. He had such a _fight_ in him, still, a fire that refused to die.   
  
Mark would love Sören even if he was not his beloved _adar_ reborn, but Sören was all the more precious to him for having been lost, and there was a sweetness and vulnerability to him now that made Mark love him even more than ever. It seemed that in his frail mortal life, Fëanor was even more himself than ever before - defiant. Refusing the Valar the satisfaction of his flame, extinguished. And Mark felt it was right that he should take care of his _adar_ now, after the horrible way Fëanor had died, and all the ill he'd known before that. And there was, admittedly, a certain kinky thrill in Sören wanting a strong man to take care of him and being submissive to him sexually - Maglor _hungered_ , after thousands of years apart, and Sören would let him take his fill, craved being taken, used, _fucked_ any and every way Maglor wanted to have him, possess him, fire consuming fire.   
  
And it was never enough, for either of them.  
  
Mark had come home to Sören, being both a product of his current incarnation as well as what he was long ago, helped him see the world through new eyes.  
  
The eyes of love.  
  
Mark passed by Sören in the hallway and felt like he was walking on a cloud. Mark thought about those sweet brown eyes, and Sören's visions, dancing through his brush into exquisite, photorealistic surrealist art, as he walked into his classroom.  
  
And then saw googly eyes affixed to every surface.   
  
Mark's desk had googly eyes on it, with googly eyes on Mark's chair staring back. Everything on the desk was sporting googly eyes - a jar of writing implements. The pens and pencils in the jar. The outbox and inbox, a container for paper, his school laptop, folders, a stapler, a hole punch. The wastebasket. Every chair in the classroom had googly eyes.  
  
The war harp that Mark kept at school - his personal harp was kept at home - had googly eyes on it.  
  
Mark sat down. He knew, of course, this was Sören's doing. Sören could be a bit of a troll but this was bad even for him, and he wondered what the special occasion was. Then it hit him - it was March thirtieth. School wouldn't be in session on April Fool's Day. So April Fool's had come early.  
  
"Goddammit, Sören." Mark took out his cell phone and dialed Sören's number.  
  
A couple of rings and Sören answered. "Hi, snookums," he said in his lovely Icelandic accent.  
  
"What in the fresh hell did I just walk into?"  
  
Sören laughed. Mark couldn't even be angry - he loved that laugh.  
  
"What the _fuck_ , Sören? Seriously. There's April Fool's and then there's... whatever the fuck all of this was."  
  
American vulgarity came easily to him these days, as long as he'd been in the States, and as short-tempered as he was. He could get particularly foul when he was driving, if traffic was a nuisance.  
  
Sören laughed harder, as if he was still tickled by an Elf swearing so much after all these months they'd been together. "Oh, you poor _dear._ My poor baby."  
  
"You are an _asshole._ "  
  
 _Takk,_ Sören spoke into his mind - ósanwe, which they used infrequently, though it was becoming somewhat more frequent with their bond. "Look on the bright side, at least I didn't draw dickbutts everywhere with Sharpie."  
  
" _You are a dickbutt._ " Mark huffed. "You are the worst, Sören. Just you wait until later, you little brat -"  
  
"Promises, promises."  
  
  
_  
  
  
Later that evening Mark picked Sören up - putting Sören's tuxedo cat Snúður in the cat carrier to take over to his place for the weekend. Mark was half-expecting to see googly eyes on the cat carrier too.  
  
While they sometimes did "the date thing" and went to restaurants, Mark enjoyed cooking, and he especially loved cooking for Sören, who appreciated it, always delighted by whatever Mark came up with. Tonight Mark was making homemade lasagna, something that had become a favorite of Sören's. Sören relaxed while Mark worked in the kitchen, sometimes sketching, sometimes playing fetch with Huan or having Snúður chase a laser pointer. When the lasagna went in the oven, Mark came out and Sören curled up on him. Mark put on some sultry R&B that he knew Sören liked and he'd also developed a taste for, petting Sören's curls, rubbing his back.  
  
Of course, "just cuddling" turned into more, and it wasn't long before Sören was on his back on the couch, Mark laying on top of him, the two of them kissing passionately, hands wandering, hard cocks tenting their trousers, grinding together. Sören was nearsighted and wore glasses, and Mark wore wire-rimmed glasses to help lessen the need to glamour his eyes, and they had to take their glasses off, getting steamed up from the heat between them. Mark loved kissing and licking Sören's neck, knowing how sensitive he was there... and he especially loved nibbling, putting love bites there, the evidence of where he'd been, what he'd done. The way Sören responded, panting, moaning, howling, bucking up against him... it was delicious. So delicious that Mark was just about ready to slide down, unzip Sören's khakis, and suck him off right there.  
  
Before he could do that, the timer went off, letting him know to take the lasagna out of the oven.  
  
Mark set the table with candles, and poured them each a glass of wine. Sören could only have one, with his medication, while Mark could put a significant amount of alcohol away without getting too drunk. Mark was hungry for more than food, but Sören dug in, and he knew their lovemaking would be all the more intense for having to wait awhile.  
  
Huan and Snúður both begged, and were shooed away. They came back, and were shooed away again. When they came back a third time, Mark relented and gave out dog and cat treats.  
  
Of course, Huan and Snúður came back for more.  
  
"This is my fault," Mark said, as Snúður attempted to climb up on Sören, making whiny meows. "I rewarded bad behavior, of course they'll do it more."  
  
Sören smirked. "Seems like you have a habit of doing that."  
  
Mark kicked Sören under the table. "Yes, it rather seems like that."  
  
Sören's smirk became a grin. Their eyes locked as Sören sucked his fork clean. Seeing Sören's full, sensuous lips wrap around a fork reminded Mark of what else those lips could wrap around... not that Mark really needed reminding. Not that the thought was ever far from his mind.  
  
Sören insisted on doing dishes, since Mark cooked, and while Sören rinsed, Mark came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Sören's waist. Sören's response was to back up against Mark, rubbing his ass against Mark's cock. He tilted his face and smiled as he felt Mark harden up, and Mark nipped Sören's lower lip with a growl.  
  
The dishes could wait, even if it had been lasagna which was a pain in the ass to clean caked on. Mark found himself grabbing Sören by his nape-length mop of dark curls and marching him down to the bedroom. Mark started undressing immediately, and Sören shucked his clothing with a mischievous smile.  
  
Fëanor had been absolutely breathtaking as an Elf, but Sören was still a gem among mortals. Sören stood six feet tall, with his curls now disheveled, long lashes innocent-yet-naughty brown eyes, a fine growth of beard and mustache that framed his full lips. A sweet face, pretty - he lit up the whole world when he smiled - though his default facial expression was brooding, a sultry, smouldering look to him. He was pale as milk, slim, broad-shouldered, a lithe, willowy body like a dancer. He had full sleeve tattoos going all the way from his wrists to his shoulders - flames up one arm, ocean waves up the other, which led to a firebird and waterbird on his back, tails entwined. He'd designed the ink himself, after the first painting he'd made following a suicide attempt thirteen years ago. Sören also had piercings - small black gauge plugs in his ears, titanium captive bead rings in his nipples, and a Prince Albert piercing in the head of his cock that was also a captive bead ring. That ring was magic - Mark's hole started twitching just thinking about Sören's cock, a delicious bulge in black boxer briefs. Sören couldn't get those off fast enough, and Mark, needy, tugged on the waistband, peeling them down.  
  
Sören's long, thick cock sprang free, and that was when Mark saw it - Sören had affixed googly eyes to the captive bead ring.  
  
Mark's jaw dropped.  
  
Sören threw his head back and howled. He wheezed, shaking with laughter, turning red, tearing up.  
  
Mark blinked, not able to believe what he was seeing. Sören had some truly ridiculous moments the last several months they'd been together. This was a whole new level.  
  
"Your face." Sören leaned against the dresser, doubled over, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Oh god, Mark, your face."  
  
" _Hells_."  
  
Sören pointed to the ring. "And look! The bead makes a nose."  
  
Mark couldn't unsee it. Sören laughed even harder - as if that was possible. And then Mark gave in too, falling apart, having to flop onto the bed and roll around, screaming with laughter so hard it hurt.  
  
Sören joined him on the bed. Sören was still hard, and straddling his knees, Mark couldn't ignore the cock pointing at him, the googly eyes on either side of the bead making a nose. "Goddammit, Sören." Mark wheezed. "I don't know what it says about you, doing this."  
  
Sören reached for Mark's own cock, slowly stroking it. "I don't know what it says about you that you're still hard."  
  
Mark lost it again, and they leaned on each other, giggling, snorting, flailing and kicking.  
  
"Mmmmm, you might just have a fetish," Sören teased.  
  
"Yeah. I'm Sörensexual."   
  
"Hi Sörensexual -"  
  
Mark glared - though he wasn't angry, and he'd learned by now he walked into it if he said "I'm" to Sören - and with that, he took the googly eyes off Sören's piercing. "And you talk too much."  
  
With Sören laying on his back, Mark slid off the bed and got on his knees... all six feet nine inches of him. His hair was unglamoured here, and Sören grabbed some of it as Mark buried his nose in Sören's bush, that sexy nest of curls like the ones on his head, breathed in the natural musk of him, like woodsmoke. He took Sören's cock into his mouth, looking into Sören's eyes adoringly. Wanting to take care of his boy, wanting to spoil him, pamper him. Sören gently thrust into his mouth, moaning.  
  
"Oh, that's good." Sören's accent was meltingly heavy. "You're so good at that."  
  
"Mmmmmmmmmm." Mark's tongue lapped at the prominent frenulum, and he smiled at how sensitive Sören was there, gasping, bucking. "I love your cock, Ada."  
  
Mark took it back into his mouth, and Sören groaned, leaning against the dresser for support. Yes, Mark definitely wanted that ring inside him...  
  
...but first he wanted something else. "As much as I love your ass." He got back on the bed and leaned over Sören, kissing him deep, letting Sören taste his own musk and precum on his tongue. Their cocks rubbed together, and Mark's hands slid over Sören's body, shivering at the feel of Sören's petal-soft skin. He pinched one of Sören's nipples, making him cry out, and he slapped Sören's hip. "I think you earned a spanking for today."  
  
Sören batted his eyes, making an innocent face that was not at all believable, and then he flashed Mark a wicked grin before he pulled himself up on his knees, and got on all fours, shaking his ass.  
  
Mark groaned at the sight of the buttplug in Sören's ass. Sören had been wearing it almost every day under his clothes out in public since July - Mark's idea, which Sören was enthusiastic about putting into practice, wanting to be taken and fucked at any time... loving the kinkiness of it. Even on their days apart where they did other things, like Sören making time for his friends, Sören still wore the plug, telling Mark he liked that feeling of ownership. And when they were together, the sight of the plug in Sören's ass was always somehow as shockingly erotic as if he were seeing it for the first time. Mark's fingers teasingly brushed around the rim of Sören's opening. "At least you're a good boy enough to wear the plug."  
  
"Mmmmmmmm. I like wearing it... knowing I'm yours."  
  
"Yeah." Mark slapped Sören's ass, and Sören cried out. His fingers circled around Sören's passage again. Then, feeling another burst of silliness, Mark said, "At least you didn't put googly eyes on the end of the plug."  
  
"Oh, damn, I knew I was forgetting something." Sören chuckled. "That'll be next year."  
  
Mark collapsed onto Sören, both of them heaving with another round of laughing so hard it hurt. Through their tears, Sören tilted his face and they shared a giggly kiss, which sobered as it deepened, heated. Sören began to rub his ass against Mark and Mark groaned, giving Sören's ass another swat before he pulled out the plug, making a satisfying pop as it came out.  
  
The sight of Sören open to him... Mark shuddered. He slid down the back of Sören, kissing and licking a path down Sören's spine. Spanking one ass cheek then the other, spanking, spanking, with Sören moaning. At last Mark's mouth was just outside the hole, and his tongue slid in, with Sören trembling, crying out as Mark's tongue found that sweet spot inside him.  
  
Mark continued spanking Sören as he rubbed his tongue inside him. He slapped Sören's ass again and again, rubbed it in slow, lazy circles before another round of spanking. His tongue went teasingly slow and then hard, fast, wild, tongue-fucking him. Mark's cock twinged at the sounds Sören made, wanting to take him, wanting to pound into him, but he held back. His brat had earned some torment, and Mark was going to give that first.  
  
"Oh god, please Mark, fuck me," Sören cried out, rubbing against Mark's face, fucking himself on Mark's tongue. "Fuck me. Fuck me..."  
  
Mark held Sören's hips in place, slowed his tongue down even more. He stopped licking for a moment to whisper, "Naughty," licking circles around Sören's opening before pushing his tongue back inside.  
  
"Oh god. _Mark._ Oh god..." Sören shivered.  
  
Mark ate him like that as long as they could both stand it. Mark's cock was ragingly hard now, wanting to plow away inside that wanton little hole, but still he made himself wait as he came up for air. He got on his knees behind Sören, grabbed Sören's hips and began to rub his cock into the crack of Sören's ass, teasing them both. Sören helped, rubbing against him like he was in heat. Mark saw Sören's fists grab the pillows, white-knuckled, his hands shaking. Just the sound of Sören panting, letting out a little whimper here and there, was so erotic that Mark had to fight off coming right here and now.  
  
Sören reached to grab the lubricant from where Mark kept it on the bedtable and tossed it over his shoulder. Mark's quick Elven reflexes caught it. He poured lube over his cock, and over the crack of Sören's ass, watching the lube drip into the waiting hole, and he groaned. He rubbed against Sören some more, and Sören rubbed back at him harder, shuddering with a cry.  
  
" _Will you just fuck me already!_ " Sören growled. "Fucking tease..."  
  
Mark slapped Sören's ass. "You may be my _adar_ but you're not in charge anymore." He rubbed Sören's ass and slapped it again. "Slut."  
  
Sören loved that. Mark's fists clenched, hearing Sören groan, feeling across their empathic bond what that did to him. He couldn't take it anymore. He started to push into Sören, who cried out "oh shit, oh god, yes... _yes_..."  
  
The hunger Sören had for this, the trust it took for Sören to be this way with him, after what he'd endured... Mark would never take it for granted. He rested in Sören for a moment, letting Sören adjust to being stretched, and his first few thrusts were slow, deliberate, loving. _I will never, ever hurt you,_ Mark spoke into his mind.  
  
And at last he let Sören have it, slamming into him. Sören rocked his hips back at him, desperate, frenzied. Mark growled and Sören screamed, the bed rocking against the wall, their hips slapping together, the wet suctioning sound of Mark pistoning in and out of him competing with Sören's cries. Sören felt so good wrapped around him, and he could feel how much Sören was enjoying the sweet friction inside him. Mark needed to come, but first he needed to lose himself in the man he loved. They needed to get lost together. In the wild, primal moments of passion where they were all hunger, all need, they were also as strongly the Flame and Song as they ever were. The way Mark connected with the Song when he was making love to Sören took his breath away, dizzy, intoxicating, feeling like he was hearing the song of creation itself, from a universe exploding into being to a new dawn waking the world in glorious clouds. Sören was his sunrise and sunset, his aurora, his supernova, his light. The Music had been dying, but in their passion it was like they were weaving something new, the fire of their love shining light back into the world. This was everything, everything. They weren't just making love with their bodies, but with their souls.  
  
And yet, still with their bodies. Mark loved watching Sören's ass, loved looking at the ink on his back as he stroked away like this. Sören was growling now too and that drove him mad with lust, going even harder, faster. When Sören lost control, contracting around him, howling as his body heaved, Mark flew over the edge as well, falling on top of Sören as he spent and spent and spent, crying out again and again. In the distance, shimmering bells, shadows and light playing together, light out of darkness, joy.  
  
They spooned for a few minutes, then Mark slipped out of Sören and rolled Sören onto his back, pulled him close. They kissed deeply, and when they kissed again their cocks woke once more, hands searching, exploring, cock rubbing cock as their tongues danced.  
  
Mark took Sören again, going more slowly than before. Now that they'd both gotten that savage need out of their system, they could be more sensual this time, savoring. Mark's fingers brushed and walked over Sören's body, and he bent his head to lick one pierced nipple, suckled, then feasted on the other. Back and forth, as Sören panted, bucked, cried out. Mark tugged Sören's nipple rings with his teeth, fingers playing with one as he lapped and sucked and nibbled on the other. He loved making those nipples swell and glisten, like delicious, ripe berries begging to be eaten. He loved all of Sören's body but the pierced nipples did something to him. And playing with Sören's pierced cock added to his excitement, especially with Sören's reactions, relishing every gasp and quiver and breathy moan.  
  
As they got closer, their bodies moved together harder, faster. Soon Mark was driving into him just as hard and fast as before, Sören swearing in Icelandic, until he couldn't make words at all, just shouting wordlessly, wailing, almost sobbing in his need. Mark reached down to play with Sören's sensitive balls, stroking Sören's cock with the other hand. Sören was getting very close, balls tightening, and Mark felt himself rushing there too. He needed Sören to come first. "Come for me, baby," he whispered.  
  
Sören shrieked as he shot all over Mark's chest and stomach. The feeling of Sören's hot cum spraying him, and Sören's channel pulsing around him, and Mark was gone, crying his name as he spilled, feeling like the fire was melting his bones, liquefying him. _What a lovely way to burn._  
  
The room was very bright now. Sören's eyes were shining, and he had a radiant smile, perfectly at peace. Mark committed it to memory - no matter what the future held, he would remember Sören like this, beautiful in bliss. Mark kissed him softly as he slipped out. "Your turn."  
  
He expected Sören to just take him, but Sören decided to repay him for all the teasing. He lay on his back and Sören dove down, tonguing him like his life depended on it, devouring him. Mark got close to coming just from that, and then Sören slowed down, eyes locked with his, wicked. Mark howled with frustration. Sören laughed into him softly, going even more slowly.  
  
Sören stayed down there for what felt like forever. Every time he'd speed up, and Mark would be right on that edge again, about to climax, Sören would slow his licking, teasing and teasing. It was delicious, and maddening. Sören knew how to drive him out of his mind with sensation, with raw sexual need.  
  
He needed to be good and ready when Sören at last took him. Sören could be a vicious, savage top, as aggressive now as he was then. Mark loved it, his legs on Sören's shoulders as Sören hammered him, a Viking conquesting, pillaging, taking what he wanted. But Sören was sensitive enough to want what Mark wanted too, and _Hells_ , Mark wanted this, the bead in that ring rubbing his prostate exquisitely, the rhythm stroking him just the right way, his lust fueled by the hungry, almost angry look on Sören's face as he slammed into him harder and harder. The lewd, primal slap of Sören's balls against him as he fucked made it even better. And those sexy growls... Mark's fists clenched, gasping for breath. Wanting to come, wanting to make this last as long as he could, never enough, always needing more...  
  
Mark shot first, painting Sören's nipples, then Sören's throat and his face. Sören lapped like he was at a fountain, getting some cum on his tongue as the rest made another mess on his face, and then with a roar Sören flooded him with white-hot seed. The feeling of Sören emptying into him intensified his release, contracting and shooting again as pleasure throbbed through him, a full-body orgasm, falling, flying, ecstasy.  
  
Sören sank down into his arms and they tangled up together, nuzzling, giving each other sweet little kisses. Sören snuggled into his shoulder and Mark stroked his sweat-damp curls.  
  
"I love you," Mark husked.  
  
"I love you." Sören peeked up, and smiled, wrinkling his nose with happiness before nuzzling Mark again.  
  
"I love hearing it."  
  
"I love you. I love fucking you. I love the way you fuck me." Sören crinkled his nose again and bit his lower lip - Mark would have flipped him onto his back and ravished him if he weren't too spent. For now. Sören grinned. "I love the way you punish me."  
  
"Yeah... you like being a brat too much, I think." Mark gave Sören's ass one last little swat. Truthfully, it was never too much... and Sören knew it.  
  
"Oh, if this is the way you react when I troll you this much, I'll _definitely_ have to do that again next year," Sören giggled.  
  
And then Sören sobered, and Mark knew why. Talking about the future was still a fraught subject for them.   
  
When their relationship was new, Mark had admitted that he was wary of being involved with yet another mortal - even one that was the reincarnation of his father-lover, not that he and Sören had broached that subject yet. It wasn't simply not wanting to watch another partner die... not wanting to watch his father die all over again... but it was also the fact that Mark didn't age, and because of that he necessarily had to move around from place to place, since his personality was such that he couldn't get away with being younger than his thirties or forties and his personality was such that claiming to have "had some work done" was suspect. That was a hard enough life for him, never mind forcing it on someone else. Someone like Sören in particular, who really needed peace and stability in his life after everything. Sören had asked Mark to give their relationship at least a year and let Sören make the decision about coming with him when the year was over, and Mark had done one better, as it would take two years for Huan to complete his service dog training. And later on that fall, when Sören had revealed he was Fëanor - which Mark had already figured out - Mark had decided that he really couldn't live without Sören, and Fëanor had always been fairly sure of what he wanted. So Mark was done with the idea that he and Sören would eventually part ways.  
  
And yet, Sören didn't completely trust that - and not that Mark could blame Sören, with his issues. Earlier in the year, in February, a bout of the flu had turned into bronchitis had turned into walking pneumonia, aggravated by Sören's asthma, and Mark had come to stay with him for a couple weeks to take care of him. Mark had been haunted by the sight of Sören so ill and weak, and Sören began to fear once more that Mark would leave. Even as Mark had shown he hadn't left, he was still here, he could still feel those doubts creep up now and again.  
  
As they were creeping up now.  
  
But Sören had nothing to fear. Mark was tired of running, tired of being alone. And Sören's fire kept him so very, very warm.  
  
And Mark realized - as ridiculous as the googly eyes had been, especially on Sören's Prince Albert piercing, and especially the jokes Sören had made about the plug... it exemplified what he loved about Sören. Never had he loved his mate more than he did this evening, irreverent, sassy. All of the old brattiness and mischief of his father in a fun, exciting new package.  
  
He wanted this for life. And he knew Sören did too. But Sören wouldn't just take his word for it. Sören needed more than words, having had experience with gaslighters, and people who said one thing and did another. Sören needed a tangible sign of commitment.  
  
Mark knew, then, what he had to do.  
  
In the meantime his arms tightened around Sören. "Next year I might get you back." He kissed Sören's cheek. "Might even outdo you."  
  
Sören grinned, the angst rolling off him for now. "I'd like to see you try."  
  
  
_  
  
  
On Saturday morning Mark let Sören sleep in. He left Sören a note saying he went to the supermarket to pick up groceries... which wasn't a lie.  
  
But it wasn't the entire truth, either. Mark took a detour.  
  
The jeweler had some very nice rings, any of which Sören would probably have been fine with, but they were also very generic. Mark wanted to give Sören something that not everyone else had. He wasn't the jewelry designer that Fëanor has been, or the artist that Sören was now, but there was still a touch of that in him, being his father's son. He and the jeweler went over plans for two matching custom rings - a simple white band, with diamonds going around it, an endless circle, a symbol of their lives coming full circle, the unbroken chain of eternity. It was elegant and tasteful, clean and classic. It was, arguably, not unique on its own. But the inscription Mark wanted on the inside - now that was something else.  
  
On the inside of the ring, Mark wanted the phrase _sönn ást deyr aldrei_ \- Icelandic for "true love never dies" - done in Old Norse futhark runes. Sören used runes for his signature on paintings and pottery; he was very proud of his Icelandic heritage. It seemed that being born in a land of volcanoes and the fire of the Northern Lights in the sky was Fëanor's calling card - a flex at the Valar, that the Spirit of Fire would not be so easily quenched.  
  
The jeweler said the custom work would take approximately two months. That was annoying to Mark, who wanted to be able to give this to Sören right now, but he also knew that art took time. So Mark accepted the ring wouldn't be ready before the end of May. He just hoped that, between now and then, he could continue to give Sören the assurance he needed.  
  
The laws in Valinor were imposed by the Valar, not really natural to how Elves were in Endor, taking lovers as they saw fit, often more than one. Fëanor and Fingolfin had taken private wedding vows to each other, in secret, that Mark had witnessed, joining them in the marriage bed that night. But Maglor had not been suited for the "traditional" marriage that Tolkien reported - there had been a woman he'd had a son with, that went badly, that was the beginning and end of it. That said, Mark had spent enough time among humans that he understood why humans made those bonds. And Sören was still human. Marrying Sören didn't feel unnatural, strangely enough. It felt like they were taking a rule imposed by others and still breaking it, making it their own, reshaping it to suit themselves. Reclaiming. Making it sacred.  
  
He hoped Sören would feel the same way. If they couldn't have a happily ever after, with Sören's mortality and Mark's immortality, at least they could have a "happy for awhile". A moment of peace, in Mark's ancient life. He was tired of running indeed, and he didn't want Sören to run from him, "quit before you can fire me". Since Sören's illness in February, and the haunted look in his eyes as Mark had to bathe him, feed him, Mark had been afraid of that.  
  
The ring wasn't just a tangible assurance that his word was bond, it was like a talisman. _Protect our love. Protect our life together. Let us find rainbows in the storms, like the sparkle of these jewels._


	2. Dooku Vs. Gucci Gang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sören tormenting Dooku with "Hotline Bling" is referenced in my fic _The Hounds of Love_ ; Sören's shenanigans with Hells and the KISS dolls is also in the same fic. The "music war" is referenced in _The Dogs of War_.

**April 2018**  
  
  
"I can't believe I let you bring me here."  
  
Sören patted his next-door neighbor, fellow professor, and best friend, Nicolae Dooku, who towered five inches above him. Though there was exasperation in Dooku's voice, his heavy-lidded dark eyes shone and crinkled at the corners, a small smile on his lips showing he was at least as amused as he was annoyed. Sören grinned at him and said, "You'll live."  
  
"I'm not so sure of that. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, 'Either the decor goes or I do.'"  
  
They were waiting in line in Voodoo Doughnut on a Saturday afternoon, the line packed with Portlandians as well as tourists, even as it had been raining on and off. Dooku stuck out like a sore thumb, dapper in a charcoal grey suit with a waistcoat and pocket watch and black tie, while Sören wore a red plaid flannel shirt over a Joy Division T-shirt, faded jeans, and his usual Doc Martens boots. Sören nonetheless admired the way the silver-haired-and-bearded gentleman looked in a suit, handsome and distinguished. And Dooku's voice was also elegant - a rich baritone with a British RP accent; Dooku was from London originally and had moved to the US in the 1970s.  
  
Sören kept stealing glances at him, in between gawping at the Pepto Bismol pink walls and the black velvet painting of Kenny Rogers. Sören thought Dooku was one of the sexiest men alive, and had one of the sexiest voices he'd ever heard. He had strong feelings for Dooku - Dooku frequently starred in his sexual fantasies - and he and Mark were in an open relationship, but Sören had yet to say anything to Dooku about those feelings. He wasn't sure of Dooku's sexual orientation, despite Dooku quoting Oscar Wilde - Dooku was very well-read, after all - and he didn't want to ruin their friendship.  
  
They had just visited Powell's City of Books in Portland, where in addition to getting a few books for himself Sören had picked up adult coloring books, a sketchbook and colored pencils because he thought it would be therapeutic for Mark to color with him. Sören was also going to take some donuts home to share with Mark, and have a donut here in town.  
  
The line was quite a bit long, in part because Voodoo Doughnut was a tourist attraction. Sören snapped some photos, including a couple of Dooku, one of Dooku giving him a look when he saw Sören was taking his photograph in a place like this. "You know..."  
  
"I know." Sören loved making him make that face.  
  
If Dooku was scandalized by the mere concept of Voodoo Doughnut, nothing could prepare him for Sören ordering the cock-and-balls donut for himself when it was their turn at the counter. Dooku went with the much more tame maple bacon donut; Sören got a dozen of those for himself and Mark.  
  
When their order was finally ready, a couple was clearing out of a table and Sören dashed over to it and put his backpack down to claim it, hovering as Dooku carried the boxes over. They were originally planning on eating in the car - much as Dooku didn't normally allow eating in his car - because of how crowded the place was. But now they had a seat.  
  
Sören grinned; this was absolutely perfect, and not just because he could sit across from Dooku and ogle him. Sören unzipped his backpack and Dooku raised an eyebrow as Sören took out Mark's stuffed unicorn, Hells, and Mark's set of vintage KISS action figures. Sören began to arrange them on the table.  
  
"You're _still_ playing that game." Dooku's eyes narrowed.  
  
Last year, Sören had teased Mark about how his "KISS dolls" were performing all the time and never given breaks. He began to "liberate" the action figures, riding off on the back of Hells the unicorn, and sent Mark pictures of Hells and the KISS dolls in various locations. Sören took out his cell phone and snapped pictures of Hells and the KISS dolls surrounding the cock-and-balls donut, and peeking into their box of assorted donuts. Then he got up from his seat and made sure to get a picture where the pink walls and velvet painting of Kenny Rogers were clearly visible with Hells and the KISS dolls at the table.  
  
Sören got back on the stool and sent Mark a text message with attachments. _I think KISS found a Love Gun._  
  
Sören was a few bites into his cock-and-balls donut when Mark sent a text back. _Sören I swear to god_  
  
Sören gigglesnorted; he could see the look on Mark's face now.  
  
"You are a horrible brat," Dooku told him.  
  
" _Takk_." Sören cracked open his can of RC Cola and sipped it. "I try."  
  
As Sören nibbled on his donut, he noticed Dooku was looking out the window, as if he were avoiding watching Sören eat something shaped like a cock-and-balls with cream filling. But every now and again their eyes met, and Dooku was beetroot. Sören thought about asking Dooku about his sexual orientation - a topic that had never come up one way or the other - and settling the score right then and there, but they were in a very public place and Dooku was very private.  
  
And even when they were in private again, Sören worried that it was precisely because Dooku was so private, that he might take offense at being asked. Dooku wasn't homophobic at all, having a queer man as his best friend, but it had been Sören's experience that a lot of straight guys tended to take offense if their sexuality was called into question, no matter how many gay or bisexual friends they had.  
  
And even if Dooku was gay, Sören didn't think Dooku would be interested in him, really. It was enough of a wonder that they were friends, as different as they were in background and personality. Sören found Dooku's quirks endearing - his excessive formality and refinement, being a bit pedantic and prone to lecturing, having a more serious demeanor. Sören knew that underneath that serious-business-all-the-time reserved nature was someone melancholy and sensitive, a kindred spirit in that regard, and Sören made it his life's mission to make Dooku laugh, even when he had to tease it out of him... especially when. Sören loved bantering with him, and he knew Dooku loved it too or wouldn't tolerate having him around. But it was one thing to have someone as a friend, and another thing to have romantic feelings. Sören doubted very much that Dooku would think of him as a suitable partner.  
  
Even though they had been together in a past life. Sören had memories of his life as Fëanor, and the passion he had shared with his brother-lover Fingolfin. He was ninety-nine percent positive that Dooku was Fingolfin reborn. But as Maglor himself had once said, just because they were together in a past life didn't obligate them to be together now - they had to love each other for who they were now for that love to be genuine. Maglor loved Sören for who he was now, not just who he once was, and Sören loved Dooku before he realized his best friend - "brother in heart" - was Fingolfin reborn. It seemed to Sören that it was part of the curse of the Valar to dangle his beloved out of reach, that Dooku wouldn't even be attracted to men in this life, let alone attracted to him.  
  
And that was without getting into where his other brother-lover, Finarfin, even was. One weekend last November he'd seen a man who he'd dreamed about, short black hair, green eyes, classically handsome, British. When he'd mentioned it to Mark, the suggestion had been made that the Englishman was one of Fëanor's brother-lovers. Sören was perversely amused that Finarfin had black hair this time around, when Finarfin had wanted the black hair of his brothers he idolized - and Sören had been wanting to go to Portland on the weekends when possible not just to spend time with Dooku and do things around the city but with the hope that he'd run into the man again. He didn't know the man's name, or anything about him other than English and drove an Audi, and was listening to Jamiroquai in the Audi, and had a rainbow flag bumper sticker and an Oregon license plate. He would think he was hallucinating the whole thing except Dooku had seen him too, albeit Dooku didn't know Sören had dreamed about him, and Sören had never discussed such things as past lives with him. Sören barely liked discussing it with Mark.  
  
The cream in the cock-and-balls donut made a bit of a mess, and instead of using a napkin, Sören sucked the cream from his fingers and thumb. Dooku again kept looking away, but every now and again Dooku's eyes wandered back to him and his cheeks flushed pink. Sören hoped he hadn't made Dooku uncomfortable; it was just force of habit to savor those last bits of cream.  
  
When Dooku was done with his maple bacon bar, Sören put Hells and the KISS dolls back in his backpack, and carried the boxes of donuts out to the trunk of Dooku's black Jaguar. Their business in Portland wasn't done yet - Dooku had suggested they go to the waterfront park if the rain let up, since the cherry blossom trees were in bloom. The rain had stopped, and Dooku drove them there now, with Sören smiling at the rainbow in the silver mists.  
  
This was the highlight of Sören's day - the smell of petrichor in the air, the calm of the river, the pink cherry blossom trees in their ephemeral glory, knowing that already, their days were numbered with warmer weather approaching. Sören burned the scene into his mind's eye, something to capture with his paintbrush later. Walking with Dooku in the park, the romantic atmosphere made Sören ache for him even more, wishing he could stop, take Dooku into his arms, and kiss him. Tears stung his eyes, and he held them back, not wanting to disturb the peace of the walk by crying.  
  
 _Tears unnumbered ye shall shed._ It was hardly the most tragic thing that had happened to Sören Sigurðsson, but it felt like adding insult to injury.  
  
One of Sören's ways of coping was humor, but it felt almost blasphemous to joke here and now. And on the drive back to Corvallis Sören was quiet, watching the greenery of spring out the window as Dooku listened to classical music. It was one of those companionable silences that felt wrong to intrude on.  
  
As they got closer to Corvallis, Dooku turned to Sören and said, "You may select the music now if you like."  
  
Sören couldn't resist trolling him and put on the R&B station. A song by Snoop Dogg came on and Sören began singing along, " _La-da-da-da-dahh | It's the motherfuckin D-O-double-G (SNOOP DOGG!)_ "  
  
"Brat," Dooku said.  
  
"You love it." Sören reached out to give him a squeeze.  
  
Dooku shook his head, chuckling. "We make such an unlikely pair of friends, don't we? It's still surprising that we even are friends - as you know, we didn't like each other at all, at first. I used to hear you coming a mile away, driving in with your rap music full blast, bass shaking the entire street. Which I swore back then you were doing purposely to annoy me. And the days you would play it at home -"  
  
"That time we had the music war with 'Inna Gadda Da Vida' versus Snoop Dogg, for the entire block to hear." Sören's laughter rang out. "I remember."  
  
"I'm surprised we didn't kill each other."  
  
"Well, I'm glad we didn't." Sören bit his lower lip and crinkled his nose. "I like to think I'm more considerate now, too. I was going through a bit of a rough patch then. Very angry all the time."  
  
"Yes, that Seth character..." There was a predatory look on Dooku's face, one that made Sören's cock stir. "Putting the fear of God into that filth was one of the more satisfying moments of my life."  
  
"Jæja, let's not talk about my asshole ex right now." Seth was the reason why Sören had gotten in the car accident. Not only did Sören not want to revisit the hell that was his relationship with Seth, he didn't want to get aroused thinking about Dooku beating Seth within an inch of his life after the accident.  
  
Dooku took one hand off the wheel and patted Sören's shoulder, and Sören took his hand and squeezed, Sören's stomach doing flip-flops again, a frisson down his spine at feeling Dooku's touch.  
  
Sören needed a moment of levity. He turned up the music as the next song came on, "99 Problems" by Jay-Z. "I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one," Sören rapped along, then he quipped, "And by a bitch, I mean Seth."  
  
"Indeed." Dooku rolled his eyes. "I have 99 problems and all of them are my best friend's taste in what you call music."  
  
"Oh, Nico, please." Sören snorted.  
  
"I suppose it's better than that infernal 'Hotline Bling' song that you have as your ringtone for me." Sören had set that up as Dooku's ringtone after he complained about the song once when it was playing while they were at a sandwich shop. "Nothing is worse than that."  
  
"Oh..." Sören felt puckish, definitely needing a distraction from the thoughts of Seth. "There's definitely worse things than that."  
  
"No. No there is _not_." Dooku began to drive.  
  
Sören turned down the music, got out his phone, pulled up YouTube, and a video of a song he'd heard his students listening to.  
  
 _Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)  
Spend three racks on a new chain  
My bitch love do cocaine  
I fuck a bitch, I forgot her name  
I can't buy a bitch no wedding ring  
Rather go and buy Balmains  
Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)  
Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang (Gucci gang!)_  
  
The look on Dooku's face was priceless. Sören shook with silent laughter, his face and sides hurting.  
  
"What," Dooku said, "is. _That_."  
  
"That," Sören said, "is Lil Pump."  
  
"Little... Pump."  
  
"No, not _Little_ Pump. _Lil_ Pump."  
  
Dooku pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't understand anything he's saying other than 'Gucci Gang.'"  
  
"That's why it's called mumble rap."  
  
"Mumble... rap..." Dooku closed his eyes for a few seconds and then refocused on the road, looking like he was in pain. "That's an insult to mumbling. That would imply he can speak words. His mother is likely waiting on his first word."  
  
Sören loved it. He howled and clapped.  
  
"Yeah, that's what the zoomers are into now. Makes me, a millennial, feel ancient." Sören rolled his eyes.  
  
"Oh, _thank you_." Dooku also rolled his eyes. "I wonder if the kids these days even remember the music of _my_ youth. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix..."  
  
"Well, I do." Sören patted his arm and wished he hadn't, the touch like a live wire. "My mamma raised me on that and Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, ELO... before she died, anyway." Sören sighed. It still hurt, all these decades later.  
  
"I can hardly imagine the youth of these days raising their children on this... this... mumble rap." Dooku cringed. "If climate change doesn't destroy civilization, this will."  
  
"I told you there were worse things than 'Hotline Bling'."  
  
"I'm beginning to think you're a bit of a sadist."  
  
"No, I'm usually on the receiving end of pain." Then Sören realized he'd blurted that out without thinking about it, and he clapped his hand over his mouth, face on fire.  
  
Dooku turned beetroot and cleared his throat. "Er."  
  
"Sorry, that was TMI."  
  
"Well..." Dooku's lips quirked. "At least it wasn't 'Gucci Gang.'"  
  
Sören felt downright evil now. "That's your new ringtone." He searched for the ringtone on his app for ringtones.  
  
"No. You _shan't_."  
  
Sören grinned as he downloaded the ringtone.  
  
"You are a little _shit_ ," Dooku told Sören after he installed the "Gucci Gang" ringtone.  
  
" _Takk_."  
  
"But you're my little shit, I suppose." Dooku rolled his eyes.  
  
 _I'm yours if you want me, Nico_. But Sören didn't say it, couldn't say it. He'd lost too much in his life already, he didn't want to potentially lose Dooku too.


	3. Eye Yi Yi

**May 2018**  
  
Mark and Sören had decided to go to their favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican place for Cinco de Mayo, which was having a dollar special on tacos as well as a karaoke night. Mark had to leave Huan at home, since the restaurant didn't allow service animals, and he looked a little ill at ease as he got out of the car, but then Sören stroked his face and gave him a little kiss and Mark relaxed.  
  
It seemed that the reservation was prescient, as the parking lot was already close to full and it wasn't even six PM yet. There was a lobby to wait to be seated, which was also full with standing room only, and Mark cut ahead to tell the maître d' that they had a reservation.  
  
They were seated in a cozy booth in the corner, where they sat next to each other so they could cuddle. As they looked over their menus, a waiter came over with ice water, freshly made tortilla chips and fresh guacamole and salsa. Sören looked at the cups of salsa and then at the waiter and said, "What's the heat rating on that?"  
  
"It's all mild, señor."  
  
Sören made a face and Mark said under his breath, "Oh _Hells_." Sören grinned and told the waiter, "Bring me your hottest salsa, please." Mild salsa was like water to Sören; he liked it hot enough to clear his sinuses.  
  
"Sí, señor."  
  
When the waiter took off, Mark raised an eyebrow and Sören nodded. "I don't understand it either, except for, yanno." Sören was still uncomfortable with "the Fëanor thing", even though they couldn't deny it, either. "I come from a people who think putting dill in sour cream makes it 'heavily spiced'. But _AS YOU KNOW_ , I have a really high tolerance for, and taste for, heat in my food."  
  
"I remember that time we went to that Eritrean restaurant in Portland," Mark said. "I thought I was gonna die. I think I understand now what women mean when they talk about hot flashes in menopause because WOW."  
  
"That place is amazing and we should go there again sometime. Plus it's an excuse to go back to Powell's, and Voodoo Doughnut."  
  
"God, Voodoo Doughnut. Where you stand in line for an hour to get passably OK donuts and look at a velvet painting of Kenny Rogers."  
  
"That's part of the fun, is how overhyped the place is for what it is. I'm not a hipster, but I enjoy it ironically. The donuts are better than OK though, I'd argue. You're just a food snob."  
  
"Maybe because I haven't burned away all my taste buds." Mark gave him an impish grin.  
  
"Oh, I think you know I have some taste buds." Sören wiggled his eyebrows, and Mark almost choked on his water, turning pink.  
  
Sören and Mark both got soft chicken tacos for the special, which came with a choice of soup; Sören ordered black bean soup and Mark got the abondigas. The waiter, when he came to take their order, came back with hot salsa as Sören requested, and once their order was taken Sören tore into the tortilla chips. He frowned. "This still isn't as hot as I like it but it'll do," he said.  
  
Mark dipped a chip into Sören's salsa and winced as he tried it. "Jesus Christ, Sören."  
  
"You can't complain too much, I gotta fuel that furnace that keeps you warm at night." Sören twined a lock of his hair affectionately around the index finger of his free hand. "You like using me as your personal space heater."  
  
"You throw off a lot of body heat, yeah." Mark smiled at Sören and leaned against him.  
  
"It's nice in the winter, hell in the summer. It's why I needed to go someplace coastal last year." Sören smirked. "Although it seemed fate had a hand in that as well. Needed to push me a certain way."  
  
"You helped me find my way again." Mark kissed the top of Sören's head, and Sören looked up at him, feeling worship that he hoped showed through his eyes.  
  
"You helped me feel safe again." Sören took Mark's hand under the table.  
  
Their soup came, and the first round of tacos. The mariachi band started up, and it put Sören in the mood to look at the little menu of alcoholic beverages, even though he could only have one with his medication. When the waiter came back to bring more tortilla chips and salsa, Mark ordered a Dos Equis, Sören asked for a "Dirty Shirley".  
  
The drinks came back with the second round of tacos. The "Dirty Shirley" was an alcoholic Shirley Temple, and when Sören put the cherry in his mouth, Mark's face turned as pink as Sören's drink.  
  
Later Mark had a second bottle of Dos Equis; he looked at the bottle and said, "It's been awhile since I've had this much."  
  
"Do you think we should get a cab, and have your car towed?"  
  
Mark shrugged.  
  
They had more chips and salsa, and groaned at the bad singing of the restaurant patrons who were doing karaoke with the band. Mark looked like he was in physical pain from anyone singing off-key, and finally said, "Fuck it, I'm going to show this place how it's done," and walked over to the band.  
  
"Yup, he's definitely a little drunk," Sören said under his breath, grinning.  
  
A few minutes later there was the dramatic flourish of a guitar, and a song Sören wished he didn't recognize, that had been all over the pop stations and turned into a meme. "Oh god," Sören groaned, cracking up laughing as the guitar started.  
  
Mark walked over to Sören, mic in hand, and began to sing.  
  
 _Tú, tú eres el imán y yo soy el metal  
Me voy acercando y voy armando el plan  
Sólo con pensarlo se acelera el pulso  
Ya, ya me está gustando más de lo normal  
Todos mis sentidos van pidiendo más  
Esto hay que tomarlo sin ningún apuro  
Despacito_  
  
The restaurant started to clap along, encouraging him.  
  
 _Quiero respirar tu cuello despacito  
Deja que te diga cosas al oído  
Para que te acuerdes si no estás conmigo  
Despacito  
Quiero desnudarte a besos despacito  
Firmo en las paredes de tu laberinto  
Y hacer de tu cuerpo todo un manuscrito_  
  
Sören actually got up and started to dance - someone handed him a bright, garish oversized sombrero and he put it on, knowing he looked utterly ridiculous, but otherwise his moves would not have been out of place if there was a pole on stage. Sören came to Mark and danced up on him as he sang, trying to look as seductive as he could but ready to lose his straight face any moment. At the end of the song with the final _Des-pa-cito_ , Sören grabbed Mark and kissed him, which elicited wild applause and cheers from some of the crowd...  
  
...and then someone threw a beer bottle at them. "GET OUT OF HERE, YOU FUCKIN' F*G***S!" someone screamed, using the homophobic slur.  
  
Sören and Mark dodged another bottle, and then a plate hit Sören in the shoulder and that was it. Mark went to the table where the bottles and plates were being thrown and sucker punched the man throwing them, and then picked him up like he weighed nothing, a gleam in his eye. For an instant, Sören saw Mark's hair flood to his thighs, the silver eyes now like labradorite, inhuman. And then when he blinked Mark was back to normal; Sören thought that the adrenaline rush as things escalated must have caused Mark to temporarily drop his glamour, and he hoped nobody else saw that.  
  
"You need to learn some manners," Mark growled.  
  
"Mark. Put him down, let's get out of here before they call the police and there's... problems." Sören took a deep breath.  
  
Mark shoved the man back in his seat and then backhanded him, and when another man at the same table got up to accost him, throwing a punch and giving a shove, Mark took one of the empty beer bottles and broke it over the man's head and backhanded him as well. Sören grabbed Mark and started dragging him out of the restaurant.  
  
"We need to go now," Sören said to Mark.  
  
"But... we haven't paid..."  
  
Sören took out his wallet and left a hundred-dollar bill on the table - well above and beyond the cost of their meals - and then resumed dragging Mark out.  
  
Even though Sören had been unable to drive for well over a year after Seth put him in a car accident, Sören found himself grabbing Mark's car keys, getting behind the wheel of Mark's car, starting the car, and pulling out as quickly as he could, barely breathing, not even thinking, just needing to _go_ before the police came... or that guy came after them. When they were safely on the highway, he heard himself breathe out.  
  
"Sören." Mark blinked with disbelief. "You're... you're driving."  
  
Sören looked at the steering wheel, then the road, and realized what he was doing. "Oh Jesus."  
  
But the way the accident had affected Sören's PTSD was far from cured. He managed to make it all the way to his house without pulling over, but it helped that they didn't have a long trip. And when they did finally pull in at the curb outside Sören's house, the meltdown finally came, Sören shaking, starting to cry, breath coming out in little gasps as his heart hammered in his ears. He hadn't been ready to start driving again - he was going to need to take another hiatus from driving after this; he'd accepted some time ago that hiatus from driving was probably permanent - but he'd made himself push past to do it, not dissimilar to stories he'd heard of a hundred-pound woman pushing an overturned car off her baby.  
  
"Oh Eru." Mark put his arms around Sören and began rocking him; Sören felt Mark shaking a little and knew he was crying too. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry..."  
  
The only thing that felt worse than the panic from driving was Mark blaming himself for Sören having to do that - Sören felt Maglor beat himself up too much - and now Sören threw his arms around Mark and hugged him tight. "Shhhh. Shhhhh..."  
  
They made it out of the car and immediately got into their pajamas, climbed onto the bed together and held each other, crying silently.  
  
"Dammit, this was supposed to be a fun night out." Mark kissed Sören's forehead. "I fucked up. I'm sorry."  
  
"You didn't fuck up," Sören choked out through his tears, giving Mark a stern face. "That fucking _homophobic asshole_ fucked up, starting shit with us..." His fists clenched. "I wish I hadn't chosen 'flight' instead of 'fight'. I'd have liked to get a few punches in." Sören grit his teeth. "Maybe set him on fire."  
  
Mark chuckled and wiped his tears. "I'm just glad we didn't get arrested, but then he did start it, and could be charged with a hate crime."  
  
"His fucking existence is a crime."  
  
Mark patted Sören and tousled his curls. "Don't change, Ada."  
  
"Well..." Sören scowled. "I have, in some ways. The fucking PTSD..."  
  
"I know." Mark's voice was soft. "We both have it." Mark took Sören's chin and looked into his eyes. He had dropped his glamour and the labradorite eyes were back, one of the most beautiful things Sören had ever seen. "Did I scare you?"  
  
Sören shook his head. "I was more afraid of him - or the police - than I am of you." His voice lowered to a whisper. "That was so hot." He meant it; Maglor was glorious when he was furious.  
  
Mark gave a weak smile. "I worry that you'll... think I'm some sort of monster. Especially with this, after all I've done, that you'll worry this sparks off a rash of violence -"  
  
Sören hugged him tight again and silenced him with kisses. "You're not a monster, Kanafinwë. You are my Song."  
  
Mark's eyes widened and now he _wept_. His tears had been silent till now, but here he was, sobbing so plaintively that it broke Sören's heart, making Sören cry again too. He couldn't bear to see Mark beating himself up like this - Mark worrying that Sören would judge him and leave. He needed to do something to make it stop, make Mark OK again, soothe his pain, get his mind elsewhere. Just initiating sex wouldn't quite work when Mark was like this.  
  
Sören had an idea. He got up. Mark gave him a confused look and Sören said, "Wait here."  
  
Sören kept his stash of googly eyes in the kitchen drawer with emergency supplies like tealights and a flashlight. He'd bought a big bag of googly eyes to troll Mark for April Fool's Day, and still had plenty left over, which he kept in case he felt the urge to randomly troll Mark again. This seemed like the time to do it, to shock Mark out of the angst... but the question was what.  
  
And then Sören Sigurðsson had the worst idea of his life, even worse than his adventures with Hells and the KISS dolls.  
  
Back in November, Sören had reclaimed the first of the three Silmarils, at Cannon Beach. He kept it in the glass box Mark had given him last fall. Sören went back to the bedroom to take the glass box - Mark didn't see, as his face was buried in the pillows - and then Sören brought the glass box out to the kitchen and placed it on the counter next to the bag of googly eyes. He opened the box and the Silmaril floated up and into his hands, glowing like a tiny sun, casting rainbows on the walls and ceiling. Sören's breath caught every time he saw it, and a shiver went down his spine. _I made this._  
  
In his mind's eye he saw himself as Fëanor, laying on furs before a fire, tangled up between his two brother-lovers. Basking in the afterglow of orgasm. Basking in the light of their love. A moment of perfect joy, perfect peace, when all felt right with the world. Fëanor played with a strand of Finarfin's silver-gold hair, even lovelier in the firelight, and thought of the Trees. Thought of a way to preserve this moment, preserve this feeling. A testament to his love for them, their love for him, and its power. A light that could conquer all darkness.  
  
It was here now, in his hands, warm without being too hot. Sören knew he needed to reclaim the other two at some point, though he didn't have the foggiest idea how. But in the meantime he had this. A piece of his ancient past... a key to the future, perhaps.  
  
In the present, a way to make Mark smile.  
  
Sören walked back into the bedroom with his hands behind his back, whistling innocently. Mark sat up and raised his eyebrows, giving Sören an _I know you're up to something_ look.  
  
"I have something for you," Sören said.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Sören brought his hands forward, let go, and the Silmaril floated across the room to Mark. Mark's jaw dropped when he saw what Sören had done - he'd put googly eyes on the Silmaril.  
  
"Ada." Mark facepalmed and fell over, laughing, shaking, wheezing. "GODDAMMIT ADA."  
  
Sören got back on the bed. "They can come off, don't worry. But I -" Sören couldn't finish the sentence. Now he was laughing too. It was so _ridiculous._  
  
"Ada. ADA." Mark laughed harder, tearing up, face red. "Why are you like this?"  
  
"You needed it."  
  
Mark calmed down a little and reached up to touch Sören's face, smiling fondly. "Yeah, I did." He leaned up and kissed the tip of Sören's nose. "I need you," he husked. "You are my light. My fire."  
  
"And whatever the hell this is." Sören picked up the googly-eyed Silmaril. "I should name it."  
  
"YOU ARE NOT NAMING THE SILMARIL, ADAR."  
  
"No, I'm not naming it Adar, why would I do that?"  
  
Mark facepalmed and made noises. He tried to give Sören a stern look and failed, cracking up again. "Somewhere, Tolkien is rolling in his grave."  
  
"Good, he painted me as the world's biggest asshole, he can be mad." Sören raised an eyebrow. "He was Beren, wasn't he? His, ah, self-insert character. No wonder he doesn't like our family, I think he was jealous of your brother and probably thought he was giving Lúthien the D..."  
  
"I can't believe we're having this conversation." Mark howled with laughter again. "No wait, I can." Mark leaned on Sören, trying to catch his breath. "'Giving Lúthien the D.' Really? _Really._ "  
  
"Right, my bad, let me find a more elegant way to phrase that. ...Laying the pipe."  
  
Mark was rolling on the bed again, in hysterics. When he tried to calm down, he saw the googly-eyed Silmaril and lost it all over again.  
  
Finally Mark pulled himself together a little more. He sat up and rained kisses over Sören's face. "Thank you," he husked. "I love you, you know."  
  
"I love you too." Sören stroked Mark's face and hair. He tucked a strand of hair behind Mark's ear to reveal the pointy tip and affectionately tweaked it. Mark moaned softly and Sören smiled; he knew the points of Maglor's ears were an erogenous zone.  
  
"You know..." Mark gave Sören a hungry look. "I find you sexiest when you're being ridiculous."  
  
"Good! I should go back in the kitchen and put googly eyes on my Prince Albert again, so the bead makes a nose -"  
  
Mark pulled Sören into a deep, fierce kiss that left them both breathless and made Sören's cock harden to life. Mark's eyes were like silver flame when they pulled back. "I think I better prevent you from doing that." With that, Mark yanked down Sören's cotton pajama bottoms, freeing the hard cock, and drew the head of it into his mouth.  
  
Sören smiled, and then he closed his eyes and moaned, Mark's mouth working its magic.  
  
  
_  
  
  
Several orgasms and a few hours later, Mark fell asleep, looking peaceful. Sören watched him, enjoying the way that looked - relieved that he'd gotten Mark to snap out of the self-loathing spiral.  
  
But he knew that Mark wasn't cured from those attacks of self-loathing just because he'd had a distraction, just like Sören wasn't cured from his driving phobia just because he'd forced himself to drive in a bad situation. Sören knew it was only a matter of time before Mark had another bad night.  
  
And it made Sören worry. Not that Mark would do anything to himself - he'd stayed alive thousands of years after all his family had died, Mark was a survivor - but that Mark would once again worry enough that Sören thought he was a "monster" that he'd decide to leave "for Sören's own good". The thought of Mark leaving him was almost unbearable, especially if it was because Mark condemned himself to be alone because he thought Sören "deserved better" than being with a "monster", a "violent maniac". Mark wasn't Seth; Mark was the opposite of Seth in many ways.  
  
He wished there was a way for Mark to really see that. For Mark to _know_ that, and for that knowledge to keep them together. He hadn't worried this much about Mark leaving since he'd gotten sick in February, but now those fears resurfaced with a vengeance, and Sören couldn't help but feel that maybe Mark leaving was inevitable.  
  
Sören forced himself back to the present, watching Mark in sweet repose, hoping the calm after the storm would last, and it would be awhile before the next. He kissed Mark's brow and watched just a little longer, eyes heavy, as the Silmaril glowed like a nightlight across the room.


End file.
